


Roads not Taken.

by malfoible



Series: Christmas Chronicles. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfoible/pseuds/malfoible
Summary: Four alternative Christmases for Sherlock.





	

Molly.

Sherlock woke with a groan, a small girl with dark curly hair was standing by the bed brandishing a large clock.  
Behind her stood a pair of small boys and an even smaller girl sucking frantically on the ear of a cuddly lion.  
“Wake up Daddy, you said we can’t get up till six o’clock, well it’s after that.” 

Sherlock glanced at the clock and smiled gently, the children must have been standing waiting for the hand to move to the hour because it was only a couple of minutes past six.  
The girl shook the clock again just missing his nose.  
“Come on Daddy don’t you want to know if Santa’s been?”

Sherlock sat up and nudged the woman sleeping by his side. ”Wake up Molly, your children think it’s time to get up.”  
Molly sat up and laughed. “Your children too, Sherlock.”  
“What even this noisy one?” he lifted Cassie off her feet and swung her into the air.   
This was a sign for the others to scramble onto the bed. Sherlock giving Chloe, the baby, a helping hand.

Molly grinned at her husband. All the children, especially Cassie, had their father’s curly brown hair and striking features.  
She gathered the children into her arms. “Merry Christmas my darlings.”  
“Breakfast or presents?” asked Sherlock.

James and Jonathon the twins bounced on the bed shrieking. “Presents…presents…”

Later.

Sherlock stood at the head of the table carving the turkey.  
He looked around at his friends and family.  
His wife Molly, their four children, his brother Mycroft, his best friend John, John's wife Mary and their son. His old landlady Mrs. Hudson, who helped Molly with the children.

Merry Christmas indeed.

 

Irene.

Sherlock had spent the day with his parents.   
He usually managed to escape the tedium of Christmas with family, but this year his father had gotten involved, saying it would make his mother happy, so he had accompanied his brother Mycroft to their parent’s house.   
Lunch had turned into a long drawn out affair as no one had any idea how ordinary people spent their time.   
They were too old to play games [or so they thought], too competitive to play charades and television was only switched on for the Queen’s speech.  
They suffered for another hour afterwards, Mother reading a new novel she had received as a gift, Father dozing in his armchair, until Mycroft pretended to take a call saying he was need back in town. Sherlock went with him.

Mycroft dropped him near Baker Street and Sherlock relished the cold and the quiet of the dark streets.   
His footsteps tapped the pavement as he walked.  
He could see a lamp burning in his rooms and though he couldn’t remember leaving one on, he was not concerned.  
The faint scent that greeted him in the hallway just convinced him Mrs. Hudson had been in his rooms.   
He was halfway up the stairs before he remembered she had accompanied her great friend Dolly on Christmas break to a country house hotel.  
He inhaled deeply then recognising the scent climbed the last few stairs with a smile on his face.

She was sitting by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. The room looked cosy and welcoming.

“About time Sherlock, I thought you were going to stand me up.”

“Well if I had known you were coming…”

“You’d have baked a cake?” she smiled and stood up, her gown was the same rich, ruby red as her lipstick.  
It shimmered and flowed like a shiny waterfall as she walked towards him.  
She leaned in to press a soft kiss on his lips.  
Not expecting a response he surprised her by not moving away instantly, seeming to savour the gentle pressure.

She smiled as she returned to her chair.” You never answer my texts Sherlock, nineteen times I’ve asked you to dinner.”

“Twenty…twenty times.” He almost stammered.  
Many of the women and a few of the men he had met over the years had flirted with him, tried to tempt him, tease him.  
He had never felt any attraction, until she had walked into his life…

How has she done this to him, made him lose his composure, what was it about her that turned him into a gibbering wreck? 

She smiled and nodded towards the kitchen,” Well if you won’t come to dinner, I decided to bring dinner to you .”  
She pointed at the large amount of bags and boxes on the kitchen table.

“Merry Christmas Sherlock.”

 

James.

Sherlock awoke with a loud moan and looked into the grinning face of…  
“No. No. No. we couldn’t have…”

James Moriarty grinned down at him. “Oh come on Sherlock, all the dancing about…all the flirting…all the sexual tension…it was bound to happen sometime.”

Sherlock shook his head not believing.  
He ran his hand down his body, yes, naked…oh fuck…and there was Moriarty sitting up in Sherlock’s bed, topless.  
Was he naked too?   
He really didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to stretch out his hand and see if James was wearing anything…em…below…

Moriarty laughed as Sherlock’s hand brushed his naked leg.  
“Yes Sherlock, we’re both naked. I didn’t drug you or kidnap you or force you in any way. We had tea remember, then a drink…can you remember that?”

Sherlock nodded.  
Yes he remembered. Moriarty had turned up on Christmas Eve.  
They had tea, scones with cream and jam, their usual thrust and parry of conversation, then someone had suggested a game of chess.  
Time passed and Sherlock had opened a bottle of Cognac Mycroft had sent. He didn’t know why. They rarely exchanged gifts.

The brandy had been smooth as silk and as they drank Moriarty had teased him. 

Flashes of memory flicked through Sherlock, a kiss, leading to more kissing, touching…then…aargh….

Moriarty pulled on his clothes as Sherlock fought to remember.

“Merry Christmas Sweetheart.” Jim bent his head and brushed Sherlock’s lips with his own.  
Sherlock turned his head away and James laughed. “No? Ok, your loss. Thanks for last night, see you…” he slipped away down the stairs.

Work giving no solace, Sherlock turned to his other friend, and was soon almost high enough to chase away the memories. Almost.

Over the next few days, the whole of Christmas Eve with all its strange and unexpected surprises ebbed and flowed through Sherlock’s brain.  
His experience minimal, he wondered at the pleasure he had felt.  
The strange craving for James’ touch.  
Had he been drugged…or hypnotised…he tested himself.   
His blood carried only the usual markers for the things he ingested himself.  
He didn’t think he had been hypnotised.   
That only left one answer.  
He somehow had become attached to Moriarty.  
His arch-enemy. Was attracted to him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
Well that was easily solved he would just steer clear for the next five or six years until he was cured.   
Three or four days later he was having withdrawal symptoms as powerful as those he usually encountered when coming off a drug-induced binge.  
He fought violently…how could he miss Moriarty…?  
How could he crave his touch….?   
His sworn enemy…how could he want him?  
A larger than usual hit barely took the edge off. He needed to find James.

He had no idea where to look.  
All the months he had been chasing Moriarty he had never found out where he lived or indeed, anyone who would admit to knowing him.  
Sherlock went to his homeless network for help. They knew everyone. They would know where to look.   
He handed out money left and right and settled down to wait and to think…

He lay in the bath, the warm water relaxing, he often had a Eureka moment here.   
Today his thoughts were filled with flashes of memory.  
James’ mouth, his eyes, his hands caressing, touching, probing….Sherlock ran his hand down his body.  
For almost the first time in his life he felt sexy, he rubbed himself, gripping harder and tighter.  
The name Moriarty was on his lips when he finally spilled.

Angrily he dressed and left the building. He walked for hours, annoyed at the lack of results from his search, but also with himself. 

He returned home exhausted, none the wiser to Moriarty’s whereabouts.

He paced the rooms, not able to relax, then tripping over the violin raised it to his shoulder.  
He played for hours, the tunes in keeping with his melancholic mood. 

Almost midnight, he heard a soft click as if the door was closing, then the familiar footsteps climbed the stairs.

“The mournful dirge makes me think you’ve given up on me Sherlock, am I late?” James entered the room with a smile.  
He held out a bottle. “Happy New Year…Sweetheart…”

Sherlock frowned but put down the violin and took the bottle.  
He didn’t back away when James leant towards him and kissed his cheek.  
A week’s worth of feelings thrummed through him as he fought to control himself.  
He would not give in this time. He was forewarned. Moriarty would not…could not….seduce him….he was Sherlock Holmes…sociopathic genius detective…

Moriarty crossed into the kitchen to look for glasses. He found a couple but then tutted…  
“You know Sherlock if I’m going to be spending a lot of time here, you really need to get another housekeeper, this place is a mess.”

The Sociopathic Genius Detective was lost for words. “Spending a lot of time here?”

“Mmm well now we’re having sex, sleeping together, dating? Whatever you want to call it. I do hope you changed the sheets.”  
James poured two glasses of gin, handed one to Sherlock then walked into the bedroom. “Coming?”

Sherlock’s brain could think of a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t…his heart and his body were already heading through the doorway.

 

John.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa cradling John’s gun.  
For a cold piece of metal it was surprisingly comforting, like Johns hand holding his.  
He ran his finger back and forth along the barrel.  
John had been gone for three weeks.  
They had had another of their rows.  
They had lots of rows usually about Sherlock feelings or lack thereof.   
This time it had been more about John.  
John’s need for a woman, Sherlock couldn’t understand why He wasn’t enough for John?  
Wasn’t their life filled with excitement and adventure? What more could anyone want. 

“ Sex.” shouted John. “Sometimes I want sex, affection…love….” He had stormed out.

Presumably he had found someone who fulfilled his needs because he still hadn’t returned.

Sherlock had spent the time examining their relationship.  
He needed John in his life he knew that.  
Could he give John what he wanted? A real grown-up relationship, affection… love…sex?

He liked the hand-holding, had enjoyed the kisses that had taken him by surprise.  
The first time they had been running away from a gang of thugs.  
They had dodged into a doorway and had been pressed close together.  
Sherlock had been laughing and John had reached for his head pulling him down and kissing him deeply.  
Sherlock had been shocked at first but the sensation was not unpleasant.  
John’s lips were firm and tender at the same time, his tongue had teased open Sherlock mouth and sent tingles down Sherlock’s spine.

Yes he had enjoyed the kissing but as for anything more…sex wasn’t something that had ever crossed his mind.  
Could he allow John to touch him…intimately…could he touch John in return.  
Could he take John into his mouth?  
Give John pleasure…..?

The gun was less satisfying now… it slipped from his grasp as he imagined John there with him…could he do this….how could they do this….how did anyone do this?

John had been staying at Greg’s for three weeks.  
He usually stayed with Greg when he and Sherlock had one of their rows.   
He had never told Sherlock this, allowing him to assume John had met a woman.  
He liked Greg, he could talk to him, Greg understood what Sherlock meant to John.

They had talked, well John had talked until he was hoarse, and they had drank a lake full of alcohol but John was no nearer to a solution.  
He wanted to go home. Three weeks without Sherlock was about as much as he could take.  
Could he settle for what Sherlock was prepared to give?  
Could he live without…affection….sex…without a warm body to cuddle up to on a cold night…could he live without…love….

He shook his head….the real question was could he live without Sherlock…would he want to live without him…he knew the answer right away.  
Sherlock may not love him…but he, John, loved Sherlock with every fibre of his being.   
He had been wrong trying to push Sherlock into doing something he was not prepared for.   
He had told John at the beginning that he was married to his work.   
John should have respected that…he would go home… be the friend Sherlock needed. He could live with that.

The house was almost as cold as the world outside.  
John sped up the stairs eager to light the fire and put the kettle on for tea.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, he looked to be asleep.  
John put a hand out to touch his cheek, fuck he was freezing, how long had he been lying there.  
John’s foot kicked something…his gun….”Oh fuck no, Sherlock what have you done?”

John felt Sherlock’s pulse then shook him awake…..”Sherlock! Sherlock!....Have you taken something?...What have you taken?....

Sherlock opened his eyes…”John…” He smiled and pulled John down towards him…”I missed you….” 

Relief chased away Johns fear and Sherlock smiling was too good to resist.  
John lay down beside Sherlock and wrapped his arms round him, he rained kisses on Sherlock face and neck.  
“I missed you so much, I’m sorry….I can do without….I won’t push…”

Johns arms were so warm and strong…much more comforting than the gun….

Sherlock ran a hand over the back of Johns head pulling him closer…claiming his lips….he could do this…he could do anything with John….


End file.
